We're Only Gonna Die for Our Arrogance
by Begonias
Summary: "Oh, glory. I don't know what's worse, Curly. Watchin' you wax poetic or the fact that I'm in the hospital for a knife wound I wouldn't be gettin' if you weren't stupid enough to put it there."
1. What Happened

**Disclaimer: **Don't own 'em. Title and lyrics taken from the Sublime song. Heavy language. Offensive things said somewhere probably because it's Curly Shepard. Shameless and annoying bickering.

This was originally deemed a lengthy one-shot, but I decided to split it up and let it go on for as long as my muse allows. I'm guessing it will be about two or three chapters. Please review.

* * *

_"We're only gonna die from our own arrogance  
That's why we might as well take our time"_

* * *

"You're so fuckin' stubborn, man." Curly paces around the waiting room and I watch his face screw up in frustration.

I grit my teeth through the pain but I manage to get my say in there anyway. "Now, I wouldn't say _that. _I'd—I'd say I lean more towards the...the _determined _s-side."

He rolls his dark blue eyes, the irises getting lost in the midst of a black, greasy swirl of hair. "Stubborn and determined are pretty much cinnamons, aren't they?" He laughs darkly.

"Synonyms, you jackass," I quip, though I can't deny I'm impressed he was that close. I hold my stomach, carefully avoiding the knife, feeling blood rolling over my hands no matter how much I try to stop it from happening. Curly's makeshift tourniquet—a blood stained towel balancing precariously over the blade—isn't doing its job.

"What the fuck ever, Curtis." He looks closely at me. "I don't give a hang what you say. We're not leavin'."

"I say we go to my place. Darry...Darry can patch me up." Darry wouldn't be able to patch me up at all, but the deeply-residing, chronic fear of hospitals overtakes me and for an irrational second I'd rather die than stay here.

The knife embedded in my stomach holds a lot of the blood in; Curly was unsure whether he should keep it in or pull it out, and honestly, neither option sounded too appealing at the time.

Curly stops what he's doing and stares at me, then glances down at the blade and the black-red blood staining my light blue t-shirt, and then back at me again, as though I'm the thickest person he's ever met. I probably am in that moment; Curly ain't exactly a good judge of character but he might just be on the dot this time.

I'm not sure why, but I offer him more of an explanation. "I just don't like the—" I grimace, trying not to let Curly know how much I'm actually hurting. "—the lack of control, ya dig? Doctors probin' me and shit. Who knows what I'll say w-when I'm doped up, ya know?" Truth is I've hated hospitals since Johnny died in this same one two years ago. Everyone I love seems to end up here and it never ends well.

Curly snorts when I say "probing" and says, "No, I don't." He finally cuts his pacing short and settles himself into the hard plastic chair next to mine. "And how do you know if they'll give you somethin' to drug you up, huh?"

"Well, you been stabbed before. W-wouldn't you know?" I hate the way my voice shakes, but I guess that's what I get for palling around Curly Shepard, for being dumb enough to get knifed. I feel myself losing blood and I may black out soon. I'm just glad we're at the hospital, even if it _is_ with Curly Shepard of all people, but he _is _filling out my paperwork. But then again, he _did_ land me in here in the first place.

"What the fuck are you babblin' about? I ain't been stabbed before."

I look at him strangely, wondering why the fuck he's lying because even though he's a dipshit he's always been pretty honest, at least with me, because he's never really had a real reason to lie to me. "Aw, don't go bullshittin' me now, Shepard," I mumble, incapable of bringing my voice to much more than that. "What about that time that you and that guy in your gang, Lou, got into a fight with Brumly?"

"Aw, yeah, that was fuckin' great! That was tuff, man." He whoops and hollers and everyone in the sparse waiting room looks up at us. Curly waves them all away with a dismissive hand. "But they just gave me some light stuff. Shit to take the edge off." He notices my tenseness as I stiffly sit in the chair, curling in on myself. I realize then that I'm breathing shallowly, in time with my erratic heart beat. The blood rushes through my head, through my ears. "Hey, calm down, would you? You're gonna get an aneurysm or somethin'."

"Oh, and wouldn't that be the fuckin' pits? Aneurysm on top of the fact that I'm..." I take a breath; it has slowly become harder for me to get enough oxygen. "...slowly bleedin' out. Thanks to you, I might add. I don't got the slightest notion why I'm stressed; it ain't like I just got stabbed or nothin'."

"Hey, it ain't _my_ fault you got in the way of the knife."

Exasperated, I reply, "How was I supposed to know you'd throw a knife right next to where I was standin'?"

"Well, how was I supposed to know you'd be dumb enough to jump in front of a goddamn knife? And they say you're the smart one."

I didn't _jump _in front of knife. I've done some crazy, reckless things in the past but I'm not so vying for death that I would deliberately put myself in harm's way. I already do that enough when I'm not even trying to.

I wonder why he can't just take this more seriously. Sure, I'm not keeled over and dead yet but I need help now, and he's acting like nothing happened at all. In fact, he looks almost _bored._

I breathe deeply and squeeze my eyes shut. I feel like death, like I'll die in the waiting room of a hospital with Curly Shepard of all fucking people. We sit in silence because I just can't bring myself to speak anymore. I'm too tired.

Eventually Curly seems to notice this and comes to his senses a little bit, which is a rare feat for him in this day and age. He's even more of an idiot than he was when I was thirteen and he was fourteen and he took the swan dive off the telephone pole.

Aloud he announces, "Okay, where's the fuckin' doctor already? I didn't take this kid to the hospital just so people with the flu could be taken care of first." He mimics the staff as he says, "'_Oh, who cares if this kid's bleedin' real bad? This person has a goddamned cold_. _Much more important. Much more life-threatening._'" Curly looks flabbergasted, shaking his head and turning to face me again. He ignores the annoyed stares of others, and I wish I could apologize to them. They're hospital dwellers too. It's not like hospital is a fun place for anybody. "Doctors are sadists, Ponyboy, I tell ya."

I would smile but that requires the effort I don't have. Mostly I'm impressed he knows what a sadist is. Deep down I'm touched, secretly happy for Curly's company so I don't have to die so tragically alone, but I can't help but wish it was someone else instead, like my brothers.

I blink as I taste the slight tang of blood in my mouth. All I know is that, if I live, Darry's gonna kill me. Or kill Curly. Or kill both of us.

Oh, God, it hurts so bad, and I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to block it out. I pray Curly's smart mouth doesn't get me into more trouble than it already has tonight.

A bundle of nurses walk lightly, dawdling, and stop suddenly when they see me. I don't think I'm gonna be able to stay awake much longer.

"Oh, _now _you decide to show up. Thanks so much for makin' your presence known."

I'd tell Curly to shut up but he's right. These nurses were just strolling idly, babbling in gossipy conversation. I could have died. Hell, I still could.

"Oh, my," an older nurse breathes. She turns to Curly, asking him questions. Something about my guardians, but it's hard for me to make out. Even from my vantage point full of blurry shapes, I can tell Curly is bullshitting his way through, because that's what he does to all people of authority.

She looks at me. She reminds me of my mom. "Do you think you can walk?"

I can't even hold my head up or speak, much less get up and put one foot in front of the other. "I don't think he's gonna be able to," Curly says for me. "Maybe if you'd a gotten here a little earlier, than he could have."

"I'm sorry, sir," she says, and suddenly I feel bad for her. Getting the third degree from Curly can't exactly be pleasant. "I have to ask him. It's protocol."

"Yeah, whatever. Just fix him up." I slouch uncomfortably. I wonder what they're talking about. "Hey, Ponyboy." Curly lightly taps me on the face, getting my attention, and suddenly I can't remember at all why he's so blurry, why my vision is so skewered. "You gotta stand up, man."

I close my eyes and brace myself. I move slowly to stand. I get steady for a good two seconds before the world in front of me seems to shift off its axis.

And down I fall, my vision blurring even more as my surroundings rush. I feel the blood in me rush and it hurts, loud and overwhelming. I close my eyes and don't even care that I'll hit ground.

But I feel Curly pick me up last minute, like I weigh nothing. But he's got a good twenty pounds on me even if I've got the height advantage. I'm like a ragdoll in his grip and it's sort of embarrassing. I don't think he's gonna let me live the fact that I basically fainted in his arms down. Just like a little girl.

Other hands grab at me, hurried and unsure. I'm put on a long surface, and it's supportive and solid. It's real soft too, a cloud, and I think I'll just go to sleep here. I've got school tomorrow. Darry wouldn't want me to stay up late.

* * *

I wake up on fire in the hospital bed. I ask a nurse where my brothers are and she says she doesn't know. In my feverish mind I hope Curly's okay, wherever he's at. I don't remember where he went off to.

* * *

Curly comes into my room some time later.

"Where the hell have you been?" I say. There's an unnecessary heat to my voice but, you know, waking up alone and disoriented in the hospital isn't always a real fun happening and if Curly were there it'd have been nice.

He has the decency to look sheepish, but he avoids my question. "How long have you been up, man?"

"I don't know. What...?" I blink sluggishly and drift off from what I was saying. I feel tubes in my nose and even though I feel like my skin is burning off, I think I'm okay. I'm sitting on a cloud again.

"Oh, man. You're flyin'." Curly chuckles. "What did they give you?"

"I don't know. How the fuck would I know?" I mumble. I hope it sounds more decipherable to him than it does to me.

"Yeah, okay, Curtis."

"What day is it?" I ask, my senses clearing as I get my bearings. Curly leans against the wall. He watches me as I struggle to get up.

"It's tomorrow."

I scrunch my eyes up, wishing he could just throw me a bone here and help me to not have to think things through. "Could you clarify?"

"It's Saturday. It's 2:30 AM. You shouldn't even be up right now. The doctor's orders."

"Oh, _God_. Since when are you a fuckin' do-gooder, huh? Since when do you care what a doctor thinks? What anyone thinks?" I roll my eyes at the silence.

"I'm just sayin'. You'll be here for a while, might as well get comfy. You see, I got an epiphany, man." At this, I scoff, but he continues. "I realized that, like, I could die any minute, and so could you. You have to live in the moment but you also gotta take care of yourself."

I roll my eyes, wondering when he became like this. "Oh, glory. I don't know what's worse, Curly. Watchin' you wax poetic or the fact that I'm in the hospital for a knife wound I wouldn't be gettin' if you weren't stupid enough to put it there."

"Aw, hush up. You were the stupid one for gettin' in front of me when I threw it. Who the fuck runs in front of knives?"

"Well, obviously I do, because if I hadn't we wouldn't be here in the first place." I resist the urge to rip out the IV and get out of here. His presence is more annoying than the cacophony of beeps going on around me from the various machines.

We sit in silence for about thirty seconds before Curly speaks again. "I called your brothers about ten minutes ago. You only just got out of surgery about a half hour ago. I can't believe you're awake, man."

He's talking too fast. I can only pick out bits and pieces. "My...brothers?"

"They'll be here soon. Can't wait for the Big One to show up. I'll end up here too." He laughs like what he said is actually funny.

This gets me real awake. "Jesus. What'd you tell 'em, Curly? They didn't seem too worried, did they?" The tubes are going into my nose, and though they're irritating, it's a distraction from the impending storm brewing.

Curly throws me an are-you-fucking-kidding-me look and it'd be comical if it weren't so serious. "Have you met your brothers, man? They're gonna kick my ass."

"Did you tell them it was you?"

"Hell no. I may be dumb but I ain't got a fuckin' death wish. Shit."

I bite the hook. "Then...why would they kill _you_? It's me they'll probably be after, for being shitty enough to land here. Imagine all the cash this little rendezvous is gonna require."

"They'll murder me because I was with you. Hell, they'll murder me just because I'm _me, _and you're _you_."

My eyebrows furrow. "What's that supposed to mean?" I ask.

He looks at me again, a look brimming with a rage I could never understand, a look that's been ingrained on his face for as long as I can remember. He's always been angry at the world, bitter, and I struggle to think of a time where he hasn't looked at me like that.

"Oh, come on, man. When you're older, you're gonna be in Harvard or whatever the fuck those schools are. And I'm just gonna be here. And your big brothers of yours don't like me 'cause I'm a bad influence on their poor little baby brother."

I roll my eyes. "For Christ's sakes, Curly. They don't hate you, man. Why are you bein' weird?"

"Maybe it's the beers, man. I drank a lot. I probably shouldn't a driven you here." He laughs, and it's self-deprecating in a way. He's always been so cryptic. "I probably shouldn't have been throwin' knives either, though. Am I right?"

At this, I can't help myself. My lips pull up into a contrite smile. The drugs have numbed my entire body. I'm drained and loopy, willing to laugh at Curly and this entire situation. I can't deny that if Darry beat him up I wouldn't be too eager to stop it from happening.

Before I realize it, my eyes are sliding closed. I hear Curly mumble something and then a door slams.

* * *

Curly is your stereotypical hood. If you ask anyone in the universe the first word that pops into their head when they think of Curly Shepard, you'd probably get words like "stupid," or "dumb," or "thick."

But he's got his moments. He's smarter streetwise than I'll ever be, knowledge of the entirety of Tulsa like it's written on the back of his hand. I can't help but think that if he got a better home as a kid he'd be real book smart too.

He's got his moments where those people are justified in calling him all of the first words mentioned. Like tonight.

Curly's been off-the-walls lately, strung out and bouncy in a Sodapop-esque way but with a scarier edge to it. When Soda wants to do something it's playing poker. When Curly wants to do something it's getting into fights. He always bitches about the lack of Socs to pound—1969 brought about a lot of changes for the society we live in. Socs became greasers, greasers became hippies, up became down. Nothing is right. You can't tell no one apart and that makes Curly mad.

But really, what doesn't set him off these days? When he's not kicking the shit out of someone, he's screaming at his sister or drinking hard liquor.

Tonight, though. Tonight was different.

As mentioned earlier, Curly's been crazy, a mix of the lack of something to do since his brother's gang disbanded (Vietnam has taken in its toll in more ways than one) and wanting to get stoned behind the gym at my high school.

Curly called me up, which in itself was odd. We go through long spurts of not talking to each other, falling back into an easy camaraderie again when we reunite, as though there was no time gap at all.

I like to buddy around with him because it doesn't require much thought to be around him. I tend to overanalyze everything and it's easy to be around him. His simplicity sets me at ease. He's high maintenance, a hoodlum, and I struggle to see more though I know there is. There's something underneath that rough exterior, something that comes out in the wicked way his eyes gleam, harsh and unfeeling.

Curly told me he wanted to do something. In retrospect, I really should have just hung up then. It would have saved me a whole lot of trouble, not to mention pain.

But I went with him, and that was my first mistake.

The second mistake was hustling pool with Curly.

The third was getting in close vicinity with Curly later that night: a Curly with a knife, a Curly with alcohol in his system.

In reality, I got myself into this mess.


	2. Don't Push

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! It means so much! PLEASE, if you're reading, please add a review. Feedback of any kind encourages me. This chapter kinda veers to a sadder part of the story, but it picks up on the humor side too.

**Disclaimer: **See chapter one.

* * *

When I'm in a small, confined place like a hospital room, I'm left alone with my thoughts.

And my thoughts let me know how different I am now than I was before. How I was once a track star, advanced placement student with a dream, seemingly destined to go to an Ivy League school and how I now feel like I'm truly a greaser stuck in a world where I couldn't truly give two shits.

Curly's gone, getting coffee or something, because hospitals don't have bars, though he could be truly gone because he doesn't owe me nothing, and he doesn't have to stay here to clean up my mess for me, even though he caused it in the first place.

A nurse bustles in and adjusts some medicine pumps and I immediately start to feel less and less. Gee, I hate being out of control—having things and invasive treatments being done to me when I was unable to have a say in what happens to me. It's an irrational fear and it's a stupid thing to do considering I could maybe die without the treatments and drugs, but who knows. I sure as hell don't.

I'm drugged and I'm upset; it's a power duo, always going hand in hand. It's like I can't have one without the other. I wonder how disappointed my brothers are gonna be in me this time, because it's not like I do that enough already.

I disappointed Darry by choosing to go to college in Oklahoma, rather than somewhere far. I was slightly hurt by this at first, thinking he was wanting me to be as far away from him as possible, but then I realized he just wants me to be able to get somewhere other than our junky little side of Tulsa.

However, the thought of leaving my brothers is slightly unnerving, and the University of Oklahoma was the only place that offered a full ride. So I took it.

Though obviously disappointed, my oldest brother was still proud. It's amazing to me how at one time I convinced myself I couldn't give a shit what he thought, it's now his opinion that seems to matter more than anyone's. When I see him I see my dad. And I hope my folks would be proud of me.

My door is open and Curly walks, _struts_, through it. "Brothers on the way up. Thought I'd give you a warning."

I give him a weary thanks and squeeze my eyes shut when he sits beside me.

"So...what's our cover, man?"

I blink at him, barely comprehending. "C-cover?"

"What are we gonna say? Brumly? Some thugs at a bar? I can tell 'em the truth if you want me to."

"Real noble," I snort. "I'll think of somethin'," I tell him surely. "I can lie _reaaaaal_ easy." I flash him the A-Okay sign. We'll all be good.

But there's a feeling in my gut, like someone's squeezing my insides. I hate lying to my brothers.

Before Curly can respond, Sodapop's gold head pops in.

And suddenly, I've got arms around me and he grabs me close. I suppress a wince as he jostles me on accident. "Oh, Jesus, Ponyboy..."

"I know," I say, feeling like shit. "I'm..." I blink my eyes shut a few times, wanting the fuzziness to stop. "Soda, you okay, Soda? You good?"

"I'm good," he responds, and it's all breathy like he's gonna cry.

Darry stands by the foot of my bed. The look on his face is unrecognizable, expressionless. He's either mad and internalizing or this is the calm before the storm. Neither one seems that great. But again, this is what I get for being around Curly Shepard. Darry just continues to eye me with a certain scrutiny.

"Well, you're in one piece."

Everyone, including Curly, bristles at his harsh tone of voice. "Aw, Dar, c'mon..." Soda jumps to my defense, as per usual. "He's, uh, he's—"

Darry won't have it and he spins suddenly to face me. His anger is palpable. I feel like I could reach out and grab it. "Glory, Pony! Do you know what it felt like to—to get a call at 2:30 am explainin' that your brother's in the hospital? The brother I didn't even_ know_ left the house?"

My surroundings are fuzzy and I drown in guilt. It's like a blast to the face and I feel terrible, remembering how I snuck out and forgot to even leave a note.

"Dar, I'm..." But I don't continue. I don't continue because my words sound garbled and Darry won't hear any of it anyway.

"You almost died, Ponyboy!"

"But I _didn't_!" Why doesn't he understand this? I'm okay!

It's probably the wrong choice of words, but that's not something my jumbled brain can afford to stop and think about. The looks on my brothers' faces are similar. Curly just looks like he's gonna burst out laughing. I wish he weren't here because getting bitched out by your brother in front of your friends isn't how I intended this night to go.

I smile, remembering that I didn't intend to get a knife thrown at me either but that's just how it happened.

Darry mistakes the smile as something else. I can see it in the vein in his neck, the way it quivers and throbs when he's angry and/or worried. "Do you even understand that? Can you imagine hearing that your brother's in surgery and may not make it out?"

"No, Darry, no, I can't," I mumble as I rest my head limply against the bleach white pillows. "But I ain't too sure why you're..." I yawn. "Why you're yellin' at me. It ain't like I _wanted _to get stabbed."

I giggle as Soda and Curly both groan. I wonder what I said wrong this time because the words sound like truth to me.

"Okay, okay." Soda stands, moving Darry back. "Darry, don't yell at him yet. He don't understand."

"They got him on morphine," Curly explains. "It's a damn miracle he's even able to talk right now."

I breathe in, content. I'm tired but I'm okay. It'll all be okay when I wake up.

* * *

The light that stabs my eyes when I finally manage to open them is unpleasant, and already the desire to go back to the sereneness of unconsciousness is tempting. There's a part of me desperate to close my eyes again and start all over later.

My nose feels irritated and dry, my eyes blurred and I want to scream. My chest down is numb and I think there's air being blown into me.

The telltale signs of a hospital. Oh, yeah. Awareness comes rushing back.

As if the tan and white, mucky wallpaper and the cacophony of beeps didn't give me enough of a clue. I wonder what I did to wind up here. What I did to deserve the loopy, but more lucid feeling I have.

"Shit..." The first words I say when I wake up this time. Maybe I should have thought about something far more poetic, a recitation of "Soliloquy of the Solipsist" by Sylvia Plath to my bed side manner, which is frighteningly bare, I notice as I refocus my eyes—something that proves to be a mega bitch. Sylvia Plath would have been good, something my fourteen year old self really would have admired. I always loved being dramatic.

I breathe through the pain, and even though I like having my memories and awareness in tact, I crave the numbness the drug brought and I hope I don't grow to have some weird sort of dependence on it.

A figure approaches and I don't bother to see who it is. I can tell simply by the sounds of the footsteps it's Sodapop. I've listened to that sound for years. Darry's are heavier, weary and worn from working all the time. Soda's are easy going, lighter, and his sneakers slap on the floor in rhythm.

I turn and face him, mouth dropping open and I can't find the energy to shut it. "Hey..."

"Hey, kid." He looks at me. "You good?"

"I'm good."

"You don't look it."

I breathe a slight laugh through my nose. "It must run in the family."

Sodapop grins, a real smile, and I feel better knowing he's not as mad at me. "You ain't mad?"

"I ain't mad. I'm worried is all. Darry too."

"You ain't gotta be. I'm alright now."

"Yeah, just a vital organ knicked. A small blood transfusion. No biggie." His face turns hard for a split second, and I feel a little taken aback by his anger. The cannula in my nose itches. "You can't—you can't just keep...goin' all self-destruct mode on me, ya know? We need ya here for a long time."

"Yeah." Because it was all _my_ fault. I shouldn't even be surprised. I knew it was gonna be my fault. Everything is. "It ain't like I chose to get stabbed. Weapons flyin' through the air is real avoidable."

"Funny," Soda snorts. "You said the same thing to Darry last night when he was gettin' on your case about it."

I grimace as I finally gather the energy to move myself up. "God...what else did I say?" I don't allow myself to panic yet.

"Nothin' much. It was mostly Darry. He's a little upset right now."

"Understandably. I remember him chewin' my ass out loud enough for the whole hospital staff to hear. I'm surprised the neighborhood dogs didn't start barking."

"Ah, you know him. That's his thing. Yells instead of talkin'." He smiles again, all pearly white teeth. "You gonna explain to me what happened?"

I think about it before I spill it all. I tell him everything and hope Curly doesn't kick my ass later for not sparing any of the gritty details.

* * *

_I never should have listened to his whole "I wanna go on one last adventure before my number's up" speech. I never should have gone with him._

_But I did. And I can complain all I want, but at this point there's just nothing I can do. What happened happened. And I can't change that._

_My brothers don't know where I am. I don't really know where I am. Some dive bar I'd never been to._

_There's a blade sticking out of my stomach like a turkey thermometer, blood tendrils flooding out, forcing me to lie on my back. But at least gravity is working with me—at least mother nature is cutting me some slack here. I guess I can look on the bright side._

_I can hear softly the sounds of "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" in the background, maybe coming from inside the bar (though unlikely), but maybe coming from inside my head. I don't like the Beatles but at this moment it's the greatest thing I've ever heard, and I want to weep right alongside George Harrison's guitar because I don't think I'm getting out of this one._

_Curly's running around like a loon, freaking out. Arms flailing as he struggles to regain control over the situation. It'd be funny if I wasn't so scared. He's a thug and a dumb-ass and did get me involved in this but I know where his loyalties lie and I don't think he'd leave me here for dead._

_I can't pretend I ain't close to crying, which is something in the back of my mind as I notice a little bit of leaking from my eyes. Or maybe it's just raining. It's so blurry and it's sad so really, it could be either one._

_I wish I could scream, get someone's attention, someone who isn't Curly, but I don't._

_It sounds shitty but, overall, I'm just sad it's not heroic. What a horrible, anticlimactic death for my fucking horrible, climactic life. If anything, I wish I died in the church fire at Windrixville because then at least my death would have had purpose. I wouldn't die because of my idiot fucking friend._

_I try to slide a little on my back, wondering if I should just take the damn knife out of me, because it fucking burns white-hot and it's like it's scraping against my bones, this unfamiliar hunk of metal inside me. My blood is hot but I'm so cold._

_I want Two-Bit here to crack a joke, Steve to bitch at me. I want Soda to comfort me and Darry to strongly reassure me that it'll be okay because at this point I know it won't be. What I wouldn't give to feel my mother's touch just once more or smell the scent of my dad—the scent of musk and the leather interior of his car. The way he used to pick up my mother and all of us and swing us around the kitchen whenever he got off work._

_If I go to heaven maybe I'll get to see them again. I'll get to look at my father who Darry mirrors, or my mother in all her beauty, the way she was always smiling like Sodapop does, but I don't think Soda'll ever smile again after this is all over and that's something I just can't bear to think about that._

_I can't remember anything. I hear Darry's bark to stay awake but it's soft and fading. I think of Johnny and Dally. Curly. Cherry Valance. I don't see my life flashing before my eyes, instead crystal clear faces—mirages of various people in my life and how they'll react when they get the news. I hope they won't be mad at me. I can't stand to let people I care about down._

_But at the end of the day, this is probably better. Maybe Darry and Sodapop can finally get a life with me gone._

_It's that thought that lets me rest. It's not good but I'll take it._

_I close my eyes but Curly slaps my face. "Oh, God." I exhale raggedly. "What the fuck, man?" _

_"Holy shit, why the_ fuck_ did you move? I almost had that guy and you took the knife for that fucker!" "The guy" he's talking about is an ex-gang member that we ran into at the bar. A dumb fight led to a dumb injury._

_"I didn't mean to..." I motion weakly to my stomach, steadily dripping black red blood. _

_For a second, the ghost of a smile disappears and is replaced by a worrisome stare. "Hospital it is, then." _

_"You stabbed me," I nearly sob. "I'm gonna die and you stabbed me." _

_"You ain't gonna die, asshole," he says impatiently. "Come on, let's get you up, huh?" _

_I breathe in and out and count to ten, and then I'm calm. I'm not bleeding too much and if I go to a hospital they'll patch me up fine. Overly confident, I grip the wall and hoist myself up and a wave of vertigo hits. _

_"Jesus Christ, Curtis. Why you gotta do that?" _

_"Do what?" I snap, holding my stomach and gripping the wall. "Why do I gotta get stabbed? That's a good question, man." _

_"No! Why do you gotta just get up like you didn't just get a fuckin' knife thrown at you? Just sit your ass down and I'll carry you. Shit, man!"_

_He wraps a steady arm over my shoulders and slowly but surely, we take the walk to his car—a junky old piece of shit—and settles me in there. He stuffs a cigarette in my mouth and lights it for me. I wish I could follow the smoke as it wisps away in front of me. Before shutting the door, Curly leaves me laying there limply in the front seat and he rummages through his back seat. He finds a long towel and shoves it against the wound in a half-assed attempt to staunch the blood. _

_"Shit, do we take this fuckin' thing out or leave it in?" _

_"I don't know, man! I ain't a goddamn knife expert." I remember the way Bob Sheldon died, almost instantly, and Johnny was right when he said there was a lot of blood in people. I hope I'm lucky enough to not have their fates. _

_"Come on. We're goin'." _

_We drive in silence save for Curly's barks of "Open your goddamn eyes, Ponyboy!" even though I didn't realize I had closed them. I laugh at the absurdity of this situation and eventually Curly joins me. _

_Curly drags me in, towel and all, yelling things, "Hurt kid! Hurt kid!" and "We gotta get him help!" but I guess I'm not grievously wounded enough because they make me wait. _

_"Let's just go, Shepard. Let's just go." _

_"Let's just go? Have you lost your fuckin' marbles?" _

_"Let's go. I'll be fine. I don't want my brothers to worry. I'll...I'll be fine." _

_"Jesus Christ. No. We're stayin' here." _

_I moan. "Ohhhhhh." I grimace. "My brothers are gonna kill me." _

_"I think that's the least of your worries. Besides, there won't be nothin' to kill if we don't stay here. You're so fuckin' stubborn, man." _


	3. Badfish

**A/N: **Ahhhh, long wait. I offer my sincerest apologies. It's been a stressful couple of weeks, what with that whole little handicap called school. Thanks so much for all the reviews! This is the penultimate chapter, so brace yourselves, for the end is nigh. Thanks, everyone, for the support. Please leave more. I crave feedback.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own, and I'm not claiming to own. I'm also a pile of trash for not realizing that Bad Religion was the band who originally did "We're Only Gonna Die for Our Arrogance". However, they called it "We're Only Gonna Die". Sublime later covered it and changed the title, and I think that one fits better with the story. So, I'm hella sorry, Bad Religion. It was an honest mistake.

* * *

My brother stands, and he looks at me with a barely concealed confusion. "Jesus," he says when I finally finish.

"Yeah."

"Like, Christ. How can a person be so goddamned thick?"

"I often wonder the same thing. I thought that by now he'd, ya know, exceeded his stupidness level." Soda can hardly hide his anger, hands clenched into tight fists at his side. But he hides it for my sake.

"Maybe there ain't one." He starts to chuckle, and it grows and then I find myself laughing along too because Sodapop tends to have that effect on people. "Maybe we're givin' him too much credit."

I've oftentimes thought the contrary. I don't think we give him _enough _credit. He's smarter than me on a different level, in a way I'll probably never be. People need to remember that book smart ain't the only type of smart you can be.

Now, you may look at me and say, _But, Ponyboy, he accidentally threw a knife at you while trying to catch a guy who used to be in his gang. That counts as stupid. _

And I'd probably have to shrug and reply, _Yeah, __that _was _pretty fuckin' dumb. You win this round. _

"I'm gonna kill that asshole."

"Soda." I wipe my bleary eyes, wondering if the dark circles rimming Sodapop's eyes are what mine look like. Probably.

"What, Ponyboy? You think I can just 'im get away like that? What the hell is he doin'? You coulda died, kid."

"_Sodapop_. I'm seventeen now. I made the conscious decision to go out with him. No one was holdin' a heater to my head, man. I know Curly's an idiot but he wouldn't do this shit on purpose! It's just as much my fault as it is his."

He squints, and I can tell that that's just his questioning face. His look when he has no idea what I'm talking about but he's trying with all his might to get it. "What, you throw a knife at yourself?"

I blink at the question. "Uh, no."

"You ask Curly to throw it at you?"

"No, of course not!" I shout. "Soda, what are you—"

"Yeah. What I thought. And so with that logic, I got the right to kill him."

"No, you don't," I snap, and I wonder if I'm the only person sane enough to not want my brother to become a fucking felon. And not that I underestimate my brother's abilities, I still would question him in a fight with Curly Shepard. Curly fights dirty. After all, he was more than willing to throw a knife at a guy he used to know. "God, will you please stop fightin' my battles for me? I appreciate the thought. I do. But please—"

I'm cut off abruptly as a nurse, and I've come to find out that her name is Rhonda, comes in and injects something into my IV. It's a blessing in disguise. I was cut off before I could do any real damage. I look over at my brother and his face is pained. It leaves me to wonder why I always have to say the wrong thing.

"Gee," I mumble sardonically, and I don't care if she hears me. "More drugs."

"Would you rather feel the pain, Ponyboy?" she asks and smiles, almost scolding me like a mother would to a kid who was caught with his hand in the cookie jar, because over the last hour or so she's been the only nurse to ever reach out and make some sort of connection with me, the one with the motherly air from earlier. Maybe that's why I'm so willing to put up with her. If I close my eyes I can pretend it's my own mom. She puts a soft, comforting hand to my head and I can't help but lean into it. "Your fever's down some. That's real good."

This gets Soda's attention. "How the hell did he get a fever?" The way he says it doesn't sit well with her, and I find myself taken aback as well at the unhinging anger, bubbling just beneath the surface. Soda's crackin' bad.

She veers her concentration to my brother, and her face is not nearly as matronly or platonic as it was when it was directed at me. Her hands go to her hips and she stands her guard to Sodapop even though he's kind of a hoodlum and has the tendency to scare people who don't know him, who aren't fazed by his charm. I guess after facing Curly nothing can stop her now. "He had an infection. It's to be expected."

"Ooookay." He throws up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm real sorry. Jesus."

I watch the scene with awe, not really used to being the target of affection of women, regardless of age. Especially not in comparison to Sodapop. Broads of all ages come flocking to him, from his looks to his charming good manners.

"Do you know how he got into this hospital, young man?" Her hands leave her hips as she says this, and one finds her way through my hair, fluffy without grease. She only stares at Sodapop, burning a hole into his head.

"Yeah, he got stabbed. Ain't like it's hard to tell." He looks at me in disbelief, with that _she's fuckin' crazy! _look on his face. I cringe, wishing I could just retract and get sucked into the mattress I'm lying on. It'd be easier than having to face this.

"Yeah." It's curt. "And he got an infection in his bloodstream. We've taken care of it. Now, if you don't mind, I'm tending to my patient."

I feel myself start to relax as whatever the hell she gave me works its way through me. I want to laugh at how insane this all is. And so I do.

"Hey, Rhonda? When can I get out of here?"

Her round face is slowly dissolving into a distorted blob. I'm tired of being tired. "Soon, baby. Rest now," she says.

I take one more look at Sodapop, at his weary face and I wish that it would become as blurry as hers so I didn't have to see how upset it looks. I close my eyes.

"...give him? Is he okay?"

"It's okay, honey." It's said soothingly, voice mimicking compassion for once. I'm glad because if I can't comfort him at least someone else can.

* * *

"Oh, lookit. It's Sleeping Beauty."

I crack my eyes open and blink against the sun. I see his silhouette before my eyes can adjust. "You're a great bedside manner."

"So I've been told." Curly's jaw is tight, teeth clenched together. He plops himself down into a comfortable looking, pea green recliner. It stands out in contrast to the beige walls, but what would I know. I'm not choosing a career in interior design. "How you doin', Curtis?"

"I'm okay," I say, but I'm hot and I hurt and I'm so tired. I feel all over the place and I want someone to take me out. Of this hospital or with a bus. Either one seems like a welcome diversion from conversing with someone in a sticky hospital bed.

"I brought cards."

"Why the fuck are you here, man?" I hope he can't hear the desperation in my voice. I feel like a little dependent child, like I'm watching Johnny die from his burns all over again except this time it's almost like I've changed roles.

"Hey, I just thought I owed you, man." He grins. "I kinda landed you here the first place. Seemed like a decent thing to do, man."

Maybe, on a different day, I would have laughed at how much he's changed and we would be happy like life is perfect, like I'm not in a hospital bed because Curly is too stupid to function in a working society, not to mention in a simple bar fight. But this isn't a perfect world, and I _am _in a hospital bed and I almost died.

"Thanks," I mumble, because after all, he didn't have to be here if he didn't want to be.

"Don't mention it."

I look at him and almost smile.

"Seriously, man," he says. "Don't mention it. To anyone."

"We can't let anyone know that the big, bad Curly Shepard is gettin' soft."

"Aw, fuck you, man. Even if you're in here, I ain't against kickin' the shit out of you."

I wouldn't doubt it.

"Hey, where's Darry, man? Where's my brother?"

"He's here, or at least he was before. I think he's avoidin' you. He's been up here while you we're sleepin' but always leaves when you're about to wake up."

Oh, brother. And isn't this fantastic. It's just what I needed. Darry to throw a fucking conniption fit because I messed up. I thought he would have known by now that that's just something I do. I let people down. Maybe if I didn't, three people would still be alive.

I don't know what it is that's bringing these feelings out. All I know is that when Darry and me fight, no one wins. We all feel equally miserable, not to mention we put Sodapop in an uncomfortable position. That's the absolute opposite of what I want to do.

Me and Darry's relationship is built off mutual respect and almost mistrust. And when I say almost, I mean _he_ mistrusts _me_. I hate that. I do. I aim to please him more than I have ever wanted to with Soda.

"Glory. He's real pissed, ain't he?"

"I gotta say, Curtis, I don't think he's that mad. I think he's just worried. You gotta cherish that, man."

"Oh, and now you're a fuckin' philosopher? You got any other sage words for me, Aristotle?" I roll my eyes for the probably the fiftieth time since I've been in this blasted place and huff an exasperated breath at this day. With Curly, my life is just one dramatic eye roll after the next. And then, I say the words that have been on my mind since Curly called me up, asking me to hustle pool with him at some trashy bar. "What the hell is up with you, man? You're soundin' less like a hoodlum and more like a fuckin' Soc every day."

"I swear on Angel's grave, you call me a Soc again and I'll throw another fuckin' switch at you. I'm bein' serious, Curtis. All's I'm sayin' is that you're awful lucky you've got people who actually care about you. Shit, if it were me, they'd leave me here to die."

I _am _lucky, I realize and I feel sick. If Curly ended up here, no one would even go to see him. He's right, and I hate when he's right. I got people here who care and Curly doesn't always have that luxury. Not a lot of greasers do. And I can bitch and moan all I want, but where would me and Soda be without Darry?

"Yeah. You're right." Something I never thought I would say to Curly Shepard. But I always give credit where credit is due. And if it takes Curly's pseudo-philosophical bullshit to pull me out of my funk and make me more aware of how pretentious I sound, then so be it.

"When am I ever wrong?"

Really. At first, I think I hear him wrong. But when I finally put two and two together and see that he's not just being facetious and bullshitting me, I respond, "Believe me, Curly. I can name a couple times where you were wrong."

"Oh, yeah?"

My eyebrows knit together. "Uh, _yeah_, man," I say, and try not to laugh. The tubes in my nose tickle. The IV in my arm burns. I want out of this hospital and Curly's the only thing keep me sane, even though most of the time it feels like he's making me _insane_, like I'm not all there.

"Give an example then. Name _one_ time," Curly demands, holding up a solitary finger and then reclining all the way black in the ugly chair. I study him then. His posture is always rigid, alertness consuming his body language but in the chair, he leans back and softens his entire being. The only time his guard is down is when he's just hit a joint or drank practically the entire bar. So, you know, most of the time.

It takes me a second to compute what he's saying. For now, I'll blame it on pain, and the eagerness to move, even though I can barely acquire enough energy to lift my head off my pillow. I contemplate his order for a second before replying with, "Okay. Well, what about the time you climbed up the telephone pole? I told you that you'd fall off and did you listen? No."

"Oh, yeah." He cackles, eyes temporarily covered by unruly hair. "That was great."

"Great?"

"Yeah, seein' your freaked out face as I was fallin'." The recliner shakes as he belly laughs. "It was fuckin' priceless. It's one of them times I wish we had a camera on us."

"Huh. That's funny, because I have a distinct memory of you havin' a "freaked out face" as well." His panic-stricken facial expression is an image that I will unfortunately never be able to remove from my memory. Except his wasn't funny. I don't like seeing cracks in Shepard's demeanor. It spooks me to think that there's actually a person in there somewhere.

"Sure, Curtis. Whatever gets you to sleep at night. I don't make freaked out faces."

"Oh, come _on_! You were fallin' off a telephone pole. It was real high up. No one's gonna blame you for losin' your cool for a split second, for Christ's sake."

The chair rises up a little as Curly leans closer toward me. I reach for my cup of ice on a side table on the opposite side of my bed. It takes effort to reach it and when I finally do get it, I feel too drained to even eat the ice chips in the first place.

"Why ain't they lettin' you drink water?"

"I don't know. Because, as you said earlier, doctors are sadists."

Curly grins, all crooked teeth. His sneaker-clad feet push down the recliner roughly. I wish he had a bit of respect and was able to be a little more careful with public property, but wrestling with a grizzly bear would be an easier thing to do than to call Curly out on his juvenile delinquent ways.

He gets out of his seat. With a deft I didn't know he could have possibly possessed, he pulls out a comb from his leather jacket pocket and runs it once over his greasy head. He's one of the few people who still make an effort to keep up the greaser persona when everyone else has pretty much dropped it. It's hard for the look to be tuff when wanna-be Socs take it in as their own. Nothing's the same now.

Steve once mentioned that it was a waste, the lack of greasers littering the streets. He said the grease in our hair looked good, and that it's stupid to stop it. I had to agree with him. The hair is one thing that made us...us. And they can't take it away from us. But once Sodapop stopped doing it I guess it was just kind of a chain reaction.

Curly snaps once, getting my attention. I know he hates it when I space out like that. "Did you hear what I was sayin'?"

"No, uh..."

"I'm gonna go. You're borin' me."

"It's a hospital. Ain't much I can do to entertain you."

He snorts, picking up my ice cup and putting it to his mouth. "Yeah. See you later, Curtis."

Finally getting a moment of peace and quiet, I call a nurse and ask her to turn on the TV. It's not Rhonda. She asks me if I'm fine with _Dragnet_. I tell her I don't care, because it ain't like I'm really gonna watch it anyhow.

I shut my eyes for a little while, hoping, perhaps foolishly, that I can have a little time to sleep. My eyes burn. The lower half of my body feels numb and tingly, and that's all fine and dandy but I wish that my mind could be numb too, as well as the crippling feeling of foreboding. I don't want to have to see my brother's face and hear how big of a disappointment I am. I just don't have the energy to put up with it.

I'm finally starting to drift when a loud clang snaps me out of it. It's Curly. Again. He picks up the cup he left on my table, accidentally knocking it down again. "Shit," he curses under his breath. He turns to me suddenly. "Oh, uh, Curtis. Just saw your brother. He's probably on his way up."

"What?" _Damn it. _

"Yeah. You have fun with that. Gotta go."

It's the only time I wish he would stay.


End file.
